


Dark Wings, Dark Words

by geekinthejeep



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Sam-Centric, gratuitous use of animal symbolism, sam's life kind of sucks but at least he has a daemon, though you don't need to be familiar with his dark materials for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9567524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekinthejeep/pseuds/geekinthejeep
Summary: Most days, growing up on the road and raised with the family mission of avenging his mother's death, Sam aches for the comfort of a normal life. Having a daemon, the physical embodiment of his very soul, doesn't fix that. But it sure helps.A series of (mostly Sam-centric) connected Supernatural/His Dark Materials AU vignettes.





	1. Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten sick of looking at this story and overthinking it, so I'm just going to go ahead and post it, otherwise it will stay in my docs rotting away for forever.
> 
> Title taken from the A Song of Ice and Fire quote. For reasons.
> 
> Consider it a Supernatural AU where everything is the same, except each human has a [daemon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)), which is the physical manifestation of a person's inner self, or their soul, in animal form. You don't need to have read His Dark Materials to get the stories, but I highly recommend the series anyway.

_ “The explanations for the existence of daemons varies by culture and religion. Christianity would tell you that a daemon is God’s gift to his favorite creations; a tangible reminder of one’s soul in animal form, while to a pagan, daemons can be considered a reminder of humanity’s roots in nature. Whatever the reason for their existence, the simple truth can be stated thusly: daemons are the physical embodiment of a human’s inner self, assuming the form of the animal best meant to represent us, through whom we are never for a second alone in our lives.”  _

_ \-  _ Excerpted from "Psychology for High Schoolers: Module 1."

* * *

“We could run away,” Sam says, his whisper-soft voice sounding too loud in the quiet of the otherwise empty motel room. It’s not the first time he’s voiced this thought; it’s not even the first time this week. It’s like a well-rehearsed play by now, he knows what Carwen will say before she speaks.

“We could. We could be states away before your father and Dean even realized we were missing,” she responds, turning her little mouse body to stare at him in the moonlight coming through the grimy window.

This is normally the time when he would sigh, shake his head, and that would be the end of the conversation until the next night. But this time there is an aching in his gut, a twisting and turning anxiety that keeps bubbling up until it feels like it might explode out his ears. He  _ wants _ to run away. He wants to grab his duffle bag off the other bed - where Dean should be if only he weren’t older and more mature and allowed to go on hunts while boring baby Sam has to stay behind - and run to the bus stop and never look back. He has money buried in the bottom of his bag, carefully stored there from the tiny amounts of leftover change from his father; at least enough to get him a few states away. He knows how to blend in well enough. If he wanted to, no one would even question his presence on the bus.

He could go to Bobby. Or Jim Murphy. One of them would surely take him in if he asked. He could help them with their research in exchange for a place to stay. He could go to school and not have to worry about transferring in two weeks. Maybe… Maybe he could even make friends.

It isn’t like his father or Dean need him. He’s left behind more often than not, forced to sit behind in some dirty questionable motel room with a few boxes of cereal and rice in the cupboard and wait (hope) for them to come back from their latest hunt. Really, they might even be better off without him. Without him, it would be one less person to worry about, and less driving back and forth to do when they have to leave him behind.

He sighs, turning in the sheets to face his daemon, “Should we?” he asks quietly, feeling so much younger than his twelve years as he pleads for her guidance.

She tilts her head, beady black eyes sparkling, “What does your heart tell you?”

“That’s why I’m asking you.  _ You’re _ my heart.” he says, rolling his eyes back at her.

“I’m your  _ soul _ , dummy. That’s different,” Carwen says. He can hear the laughter in her voice as she twists to groom at the back of her ears with her tiny paws. Then she shifts, an otter suddenly flowing over the short distance between them to place a paw on his chest. “This is where your heart is. I’m your daemon, not your heart. What have you been going to school for if you don’t even know that?”

Sam scoops her up into his arms, and between one blink and the next she’s a wildcat, a purr rumbling loudly in her chest as he buries his face into the fur at her stomach. “But what if I need you to be my heart, too?” he asks, fingernails scratching behind her ears, “Why can’t you be both?”

“You don’t need me to be your heart. Your heart is perfect just the way it is. But you’re avoiding the subject, Mine,” Carwen chides gently, leaning her head into his hand, “Do you want to run away? We could.”

He pulls his face away from her fur. “Why do you always call me that? ‘ _ Mine. _ ’ What does that mean?” he asks, brows furrowing.

Glowing yellow cat eyes blink back up at him judgmentally, “Because you  _ are _ mine. Just like I’m your’s,” she says, like it really is just that simple, “I’m your soul. No one else will ever know you like I do; no one else will ever be with you every moment of every day of your life like me. Because I’m part of you. You’re  _ Mine _ .”

“That’s really sappy, Wen,” Sam says, and hurries to bury his face back in her fur before she can respond, “Dad and Dean don’t need us. Especially since Lela settled. Dean’s  _ mature _ now. He’s a badass and we’re -”

“- We’re badasses, too,” Carwen interrupts, little wildcat face serious in the semi-darkness of the room, “Who was it that took care of that ghost in Oklahoma while Dean and your father were gone on a hunt? Us. We’re the best badasses.”

Sam snorts into her fur.

“Do you want to run away, Sam? Because we can. I’ll follow you wherever you want to go. I’ll follow you if you want to stay, but… Don’t you deserve to be happy too?” his daemon pushes, nuzzling her cold nose into his forehead.

He lets himself imagine it: running away to another state and getting to stay in one school for more than a few weeks at a time and making friends and not having to worry about whether or not he’d have enough money for dinner.

And then he imagines what will happen when his father and Dean get back to the motel and he’s not here. They’d search for him. They might not want him on any hunts for fear that he’ll be in the way, but that doesn’t mean they would be okay with him disappearing, either. ‘ _ Family has to stick together _ ’ and all of that. And, sure, Bobby or Pastor Jim would take him in, but those would be the first places his father would think to look for him. They would find him, and then he’d have to go back, wouldn’t he?

Back to… This. Laying in a motel room at midnight alone and wondering where they are - if they’re still alive, even. Except it would be worse. Because, if he ran away and they found him, he’d know what it was like to be… Comfortable.

Not happy. Happy seemed like too much to ask for. But he would know what comfortable felt like, and what it felt like to lose it again. He wasn’t sure he could cope with that.

With a sigh, Sam set Carwen on his pillow and turns away, toward the wall. 

In the morning, Dean will call and let him know that they’re on their way back to pick up Sam. He’ll promise that they’ll take him on a hunt, for real this time, and he won’t just have to sit in the motel room. This will be the last time in a long while that they talk about running away, even if they don’t realize it yet.

For now, though, Sam feels his daemon sigh, too, and shift behind him, a squirrel with her tail brushing reassuringly against the back of his neck as he let himself slip into sleep.


	2. Unsettled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most daemons settle upon their human reaching puberty, but Sam and Carwen have always been unique.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not horribly John Winchester-friendly, admittedly.

“ _ An unsettled child means an unsettled daemon. Most daemons settle - or choose their permanent forms - around the time that their human reaches puberty, but there is no such thing as a “normal” timeframe for this phenomenon. Any of a number of circumstances can impact a daemon’s settling, from a child still trying to piece together who they are to past traumas. While not normally indicative of larger problems, there is no shame in seeking out professional help if concerned. _ ”

\- From “Daemons and Growing Up: A Parent’s Guide”

* * *

 

His father, for all of his faults, at least waits until he thinks Sam isn't listening to voice his concerns.

His brother and father are already comfortable next to each other on the hood of the car when John sends him off to sleep with a grunt and a jerk of his head toward the backseat. Sam resents him for it; treating him like he's six rather than sixteen. But Annora - a giant by wolf and daemon standards - is sitting there staring at him with those serious, judgmental eyes so reminiscent of her human's that he forces himself to bite his tongue and climb into the car with Carwen in his arms.

Their conversation filters in through the cracked window as he lays in the backseat of the Impala, a low murmur of voices and the clinking of beer bottles barely audible over the sounds from the nearby highway. They’re roughing it tonight; not enough cash to afford a motel and enough ammunition to get them through that last hunt. 

Sam's toes are cramping where they're scrunched up against the interior of the door and the threadbare sweatshirt he'd balled up under his head is starting to make his neck ache. Carwen is a reassuring weight where she's curled up on his chest, her cat's eyes blinking back at him in the semi-darkness of the abandoned parking lot.

"- nothing to worry about, dad. Just because Lela settled when I was young doesn't mean Carwen has to," Dean is saying as he settles back against the windshield.

John Winchester snorts derisively, and Sam can see the way Carwen's ears flatten back against her head at the harsh noise, "Lela settled exactly when she was supposed to. There's something wrong with a daemon that isn't content to settle at puberty," his father says, tapping his bottle lightly against the hood of the Impala, "You know any kids Sam's age who still have a daemon like him?"

Dean's silence is answer enough, Sam knows. His father is right, of course; Carwen should have settled years ago when his classmates' daemons were doing the same. It's common for a daemon to settle around puberty, with new teenagers trying to adapt to new schools and changing bodies as they gain a sense of self. To have an unsettled daemon by the age of sixteen is practically unheard of, or so dad likes to remind him all of the time.

John talks often about how his Annora settled at the age of eleven, an oddity in itself. Dean's daemon settled at the age of twelve into this loping, lanky canine that had dad grimacing a smile at the thing whenever he made eye contact with her. A coyote. So close to dad's own wolf daemon and yet so far, and it had to haunt them both to realize as much. It was as if John had clung to the idea that Sam and Carwen would be the same, because they had to be - always had to be as good as Dean and Lela. And then Sam's thirteenth birthday had come and gone and Carwen was still shifting at will, flitting between one form and the next to her heart's content or Sam’s moods.

Sam pulls Carwen closer to him, letting the rumble of her purring soothe his pounding heart. He can't imagine her ever settling into one form that she'd be stuck with for the rest of their lives, no matter what his father wants; they both enjoy the adaptability of her ability to change on a whim too much to be happy with the very idea her settling. Besides, they can pretend well enough when they have to. She just keeps to one form for the extent of their school days, and then it's on to a new one when dad decides it's time that they move on. It's like a game, most days. If a daemon is the physical representation of a person's soul, what would a Sam with this particular daemon act like? How is Sam with a cat daemon different from the Sam with a mouse daemon?

He pretends this is just another way to hone his adaptability.

It's not like he's ever in one place for long enough that anyone even starts to care.

This time Carwen has been a fox daemon, but Sam doesn't think that it will last too much longer. Dean and dad got the pack of werewolves they were after today, so he expects that they'll be on to the next town soon anyway. It's okay; it gets Sam out of explaining that he can't go to the Harvest Dance because he doesn't own any appropriate clothes.

He doesn't think he likes the Sam who would have a fox for a daemon, anyway.

Their voices are low outside again, and he nudges Carwen with a finger to her ribs, "Wen," he hisses under his breath, "I can't hear them over your motor."

She smacks her lips, twisting until she can arch her back against his chest, "I thought you liked my motor," she grumbles, but quiets nonetheless.

"- doctors out there for that now, you know that? Your kid and their daemon are messed up, so you bring 'em in to get their head examined by a shrink nowadays," John grumbles, stopping to take another swig out of his bottle, "Imagine that; having enough money that you can take your kid to someone so they can tell you why their daemon is broken."

Sam cringes and he can feel Carwen go still against his ribs, her tail ghosting against his arm.  _ Broken _ . Like she's a machine or something to be repaired or thrown away when she doesn't work to his father's expectations. She's not broken, and there's nothing wrong with her  _ or  _ with Sam just because she hasn't settled yet. Just because it's rare for a daemon to be unsettled after puberty doesn't mean it's impossible. Sam's heard plenty of stories of daemons who don't settle until their human is well into college, at least.

She’s not broken. She’s not. They’re not.  _ They’re not _ .

An unsettled daemon just means an unsettled human, and Sam sure fits the bill for that, doesn't he? He's never had a home; couldn't even say for sure what home is besides a place he can only look in on from outside the window wishing it was him in there. He doesn't even know who he is most days. He doesn't want to be a hunter forever - isn't content to do this until the day something ends him like Dean and dad seem to be - but…  
  
He's not sure his brain is built to do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Interlude: Dean.


	3. Interlude: Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean never was quite good enough for his father. Why should his daemon settling change things?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished it in time for a Friday posting! It's a miracle! (Final Fantasy XV has stolen my soul/attention span.)
> 
> Also, still not a John Winchester-friendly story.

“ _There is arguably no species more hated in the United States than the coyote (_ Canis latrans _). Following European colonization, the coyote was demonized in popular culture for its supposed cowardice and untrustworthiness. What resulted was a campaign of persecution meant to eradicate the coyote from American soil, with one writer even going so far as to declare the animal the “Original Bolshevik,” that lasts to this very day._ ”

\- “Coyote: America’s Totem” published by National Geographic. June, 1991.

* * *

It happens somewhere near the Kansas-Oklahoma border, sometime between Dean planting his feet in the muddy, mossy forest floor with shaking hands trying to steady an unfamiliarly new gun, and the silver bullet lodging itself in the werewolf’s chest with an echoing explosion. In those split seconds that seem to stretch on for years, with the werewolf tumbling back into the brush in mid-gasp, Dean feels a twisting-tugging-lurch in his gut, followed by a sudden, profound sense of _right good perfect_ that is beyond anything his nerves can reach.

And all at once, posturing defensively at his side, ears pricked forward to pick up any sound of further movement and ready when he can’t find it in him to focus on anything but that feeling of utter contentedness - Lela settles.

The gun tumbles from his hand with a dull thump, and he follows after it, knees impacting painfully with the ground. The mud immediately starts to seep through the fabric of his jeans and the shock of the cold is welcome - centering - as the world seems to rearrange itself around him. His father will yell at him later, at length, about letting emotions get the better of him and taking his eyes off their target for even a moment before confirming the thing is well and truly dead, but Dean can think of nothing but throwing his arms around his daemon and burying his face against her neck. She smells like must and dog sweat and wet and everything right with the world and coarse wiry fur prickles against his cheek.

In his twelve years of life, Dean has traveled practically the entire contiguous United States. He’s seen Niagara falls lit up at night surrounded by mist and the Skagit Valley covered as far as the eye could see in tulips. He’s seen the sun rise over the Atlantic ocean and set over the Pacific. And Lela is the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers into her neck, letting his fingers curl in her short fur.

He can feel the huff of breath across the top of his head as she laughs, “Of course I am. I’m yours,” she answers.

His father - once he’s finished reaming him out for all of the mistakes Dean managed to make during the hunt - claps him on the back and hands him a beer - his first - when they get back to the motel.

“Good job, son.”

It’s all so easy and normal that it takes Dean a while to pick up on the fact that there is an issue at all.

Not with Lela; never with Lela, who is beautiful and perfect and everything Dean could ever hope the physical representation of his soul would be. The issue is with his father. It’s there, in the sidelong glances when he thinks Dean isn’t looking, or the curl of his lip when Lela jumps up onto the bed, and the pained grimace on his face when Dean chatters away at how cool it is that his daemon has managed to settle so young. It’s in the way that Annora, his father’s beautiful, proud wolf daemon, is avoiding looking at either of them.

It takes Dean even longer to wrap his head around just what John Winchester is so distraught by. It’s not until they return to South Dakota to pick up Sammy and his little brother tilts his head to the side and says with such a lack of judgment, “She’s not a wolf!” that the reality of it all hits him.

It’s like a chunk of ice has lodged itself in his gut.

* * *

Lela’s not a wolf. She’s all at once so close and yet so far from being a wolf. She’s just slightly smaller than Annora’s massive frame. Lankier. Her snout is sharper, her ears too large proportionally for her face, and her tail too bushy.

Prairie wolf. Barking dog. American Jackal.

Coyote.

She’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, but she’s not a wolf. And that has to be driving John Winchester insane. The child who can never be quite good enough, whose aim is always just slightly off, whose emotions get the better of him just a little too quickly, who always just manages to screw up somehow - and he can’t even manage to have the right daemon for him.

* * *

 

“He’ll just have to get over it,” Lela announces unprompted as she stretches out beside him on the twin-sized motel bed. Her head sinks to rest against his chest, letting out a happy little sigh as his hand comes up to brush between pointed ears.

His father has left them behind this time to watch over Sammy, already fast asleep in the next bed with Carwen a chipmunk curled up on his neck, and Dean has to pretend that maybe it isn’t meant to be the slap in the face that he knows it to be in his gut.

“He will. He just - he just needs time, Le,” Dean whispers, lips twitching as her head tilts into the fingers scratching at the back of her ear, “He’ll see that you’re fine just as you are eventually.”

She snorts, a sharp sneeze-like sound into the fabric of his shirt, “‘Fine?’ I’m perfect,” she says plainly, nudging his hand toward her other ear with a jerk of her head.

“Of course you are. You’re the most perfect,” he concedes.

“I know I am.” Her eyes slide closed and she seems to melt against his chest as his other hand brushes against her snout. “Who wants to be a wolf anyway? Too big. Too bulky. Too… Too _pompous_.”

“And you and Annora would never fit in the Impala together. You’d have to ride in the trunk,” Dean points out, failing to keep the smile off his face any longer.

“I’d _never_.” She pries open one eye to stare up at him. “We’re perfect, Dean. You know it. I know it. Your father will just have to get over himself like a big boy and deal with it.”

“Fighting words.”

“I am _your_ soul, silly.”

* * *

 

“ _And yet, with public opinion and the American government itself against it, the coyote didn’t just survive: it thrived. In the face of all adversity, the coyote continued to spread across the United States, adapting to whatever habitat it encountered right alongside the humans who were trying so hard to eradicate it. Coyote is truly the embodiment of America; content to live alone or surrounded by its own kind, in the wild or the middle of the city, adaptable down to its core._ ”

\- “Coyote: America’s Totem” published by National Geographic. June, 1991.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you let someone with a degree in biology and literature write about animal symbolism. For further reading, I highly recommend "Coyote America: A Natural & Supernatural History" by Dan Flores, which played a significant role in inspiring this.
> 
> Next week, we're back to Sam and settling.


	4. Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam uproots his entire life, and Carwen settles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which John Winchester is still not a good parent, and I am still too stuck on animal symbolism.
> 
> Since I didn't mention them before, some name meanings for your consideration...  
> Carwen - Welsh. Derived from car, meaning 'lovely,' and gwen, meaning 'fair, blessed, holy.'  
> Lela - French. Loyalty.  
> Annora - Latin. Honor.
> 
> Also, a thank you to everyone who has been kind enough to leave such nice comments on this. Your words mean so much to me, even if I'm too much of a trashbag to respond to each one in a timely manner.

“ _While a daemon’s form is inherently representative of their human’s personality, the meaning of one’s settled daemon varies by culture. For example, to those of a religious mindset, the snake would generally be viewed as a betrayer, implying a cunning and deceptive human. To others, the snake is a treasured symbol of rebirth and healing, and so the interpretation of the snake as a daemon would take on a very different tone._ _  
_ _In this regard, no daemon should be viewed as an indicator of value. As all forms have meanings both positive and negative, there is no such thing as a daemon that is ‘good’ versus one that is ‘bad.’_ ”

\- Excerpted from “Daemon Interpretation In The Modern World: A Guide” (2001).

* * *

To hear others tell of it, having your daemon settle is supposed to be a remarkable event. It’s something… Romantic. Amazing. Revolutionary. Unlike anything else in your life. It’s that first brush of your lover’s hands against your daemon’s fur so that they’ll never want for another form again as long as you live. It’s that life-changing decision; that swooping feeling in your stomach of taking that next step when you’re not quite sure if there will be anything beneath your feet to catch you. It’s a sense of relief in your gut with the knowledge that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, what everyone else says be damned.

It’s not… This. It’s not supposed to go like this.

John is staring at him with those cold, emotionless eyes, not even reaching for the packet from Stanford that Sam is holding out to him, pleading him to “ _please, please just take it it’s a full ride Stanford is giving me a full ride, sir, it won’t even cost you anything and this could be good I could help you guys this is good please, sir,_ dad, please _-_ ”

“You’re not going,” John repeats, slowly, with anger brimming just below the surface. Annora is sitting at his feet with her ears back and those fierce yellow-gold eyes pinning Sam down as effectively as any physical force ever could.

It’s hard to catch his breath, all of a sudden. The packet of papers is rustling with the sudden quivering of his hands before he lets them drop back to his side, “Sir - _dad_ \- I _have_ to,” he says quietly, pleadingly. If he could just get his father to understand how important this was to him, how much this could change all of their lives, then it would all be okay.

Then maybe Dean and Lela would stop staring at him from the doorway to the bedroom like he’s committing the most unforgivable betrayal.

Maybe he is.

“You’re not going! Now get your stuff together; we’ve got a hunt and we’re leaving! Now,” John shouts, and turns away like that’s the end of the conversation.

His father never did know him that well, it turns out. The drill sergeant shouting of commands hasn’t spurred Sam to action since he was thirteen and scrawny and terrified. Now it just feels like someone is stabbing a knife through his ribcage and into his heart.

Carwen’s tiny ferret paws are tugging lightly at the hair of his scalp, her breath warm and reassuring against his ear. “It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay,” she whispers, and she’s leaning so close that he can feel the brush of her fur against his cheek. It steadies him, and with the next inhalation, the ground stops feeling like it’s twisting beneath him.

Sam reaches for his duffel bag, already packed and waiting for him on the rickety table where he’d placed it. He didn’t want it to come to this. He’d thought that maybe he could get his father to understand, but John would never accept that his battles didn’t have to be his childrens’ war. Sam can’t continue to fight day in and day out to avenge a mother he can’t remember and isn’t even allowed to talk about.

“I’m going, dad. I can’t - I can’t do this my entire life. Maybe it’s okay for you, but I can’t do it. I want more. I want to go to school, and this is my chance,” Sam says, and his voice doesn’t shake. It sounds strong. Sure. He hefts his duffle over his shoulder, and takes a step toward the front door. And then another, and it echoes too loudly in the sudden silence of the house.

“If you leave, don’t you ever come back. You hear me? You step out that door and it’s over, Sam. Don’t come back.” John Winchester hasn’t moved. He stands there, half turned away from his son and Sam wonders if this is the last memory he’s ever going to have of the man.

Sam turns away, searching the other inhabitants of the room. Annora’s eyes are still piercing into his soul, just as cold and angry as John’s voice, and Dean and Lela are still standing in the doorway when he glances back at them. “You could come, too, you know. Come with me. You can… You can get a job out there. This doesn’t have to be our life,” he suggests. He doesn’t plead.

He _doesn’t_.

Dean shakes his head, once, slowly, and then he’s turning away, too, but Lela’s expression gives it all away. The betrayal, the bone-deep anger, are so obvious on that canine face, and that’s all that Sam needs to know.

He adjusts his bag over his shoulder, feels Carwen’s claws grip into his hair, and takes those last few steps out the front door with the silence of the house bearing down behind him.

The slamming of the door reverberates through the dark oppressiveness of the neighborhood. The symbolism of it all isn’t lost on Sam, a literal and metaphorical shutting door on that part of his life as he continues down the front steps and breaks into a jog when he reaches the yard. By the time he hits the roadway, he’s running, threadbare shoes slapping against the pavement and Carwen is shifting, launching herself off of his shoulder. She screams a cry out into the empty night as she stretches newly-there wings and keeps pace with Sam’s long loping strides down quiet suburban streets.

“Run, Sam. Run! Keep going! Forward!” she screams, and Sam knows then, in that moment, as sure as he knows his own heart, that Carwen will never shift again. This other half of himself, the physical manifestation of his very soul, is flying on wings as black as the starless night around them.

A raven. She’s flying, and his strides are eating up the distance between them and the center of town. Sam’s breaths are coming more easily now, the vice grip on his heart lessening with each word, with each step away from the house and toward the bus stop.

Away from the only family he’s ever had.

And toward what can only be something better.

* * *

 

“ _Raven: A symbol of death, especially as a harbinger of ill omen. Conversely, highly intelligent, courageous, and self-sacrificing, symbolising a healthy balance of the dark and the light inside and a potential indicator of magical potential and foresight._ ”  
  
\- Excerpted from “Daemon Interpretation In The Modern World: A Guide” (2001).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I take the easy way out with Carwen's choice of final form? Maybe. But sometimes the choice that seems the most on the nose is just the one that feels right in your gut.
> 
> And with this posting, we've reached all of the chapters that I already had pre-written. If you're interested in reading more in this 'verse, this is the point where I unabashedly beg for suggestions of what scenes you would like to see played out in this world.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few more chapters that I will be posting over the next few days. If you have any questions about the mythos behind this universe that I've mashed together, or daemons, or suggestions about other potential pieces I could write in this 'verse, direct them to me in a comment here or on my Tumblr, [GeekintheJeep](http://geekinthejeep.tumblr.com/).


End file.
